


What I Will

by xenacryst



Category: Twelfth Night
Genre: Alternate Universe, Femslash, Genderfuck, Het, Multi, Shakespeare, Steampunk, Yuletide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-09-17
Updated: 2008-09-17
Packaged: 2017-10-01 23:30:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xenacryst/pseuds/xenacryst
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Illyria is, perhaps, a dark city that knows how to keep its secrets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What I Will

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Livia in the Yuletide 2007 challenge. Thanks, as always, to the wonderful folks running Yuletide and the crazy people who partake.

Wind whistles through the cables, whips at the banners that stream from them, tearing them to tatters. Electricity crackles and snaps from the rudders and propellers to the clouds and back again, lighting the airship in an orange dusky glow. It lists dangerously; gondolas ride low below it, the people within clutching their belongings as the storm rages. A gust catches a gondola, sending it careening into trees, and it tears itself from the cables above, coming to rest in a field of stone and twisted metalworks. The airship flies on, other gondolas still blown in the wind, and it disappears into the night.

"A plague upon this howling!" A door opens, and the stranded passengers look out at their surroundings, bleakly lit by towers from the city nearby.

A young woman, looking at the scraps of machinery, asks, "What city is this?" She searches the sky, finding nothing familiar in the storm, and asks the captain as he exits, "Do you know this place?"

He frowns at the woman. "As much home as it is anything," he grumbles. "We're wrecked in the wrecking yards of Illyria, and this gondola's like to rot here where it lies. Might as well clear out then. Get to the city - there's good work there for them as know where to look."

The captain ushers the motley assemblage of passengers out of the junk yard, and they meld quietly into the edges of the city.

_Orsino_

He watches from a balcony up the street. A wrought iron railing, black and soot stained, obscures his features from the street, and from within the building he can hear the scratchings of pen on paper and the rhythmic tap of the type machines. A trolley car rattles by below, disgorging people as it stops. He watches the cafe, breathes the air that wafts smells of baked bread and smoky tea to where he stands.

He sees them enter the patio, a boyish figure leading an elegant woman, his arm stiffly holding hers. They make their way to a table; he is in front, though she guides him subtly, smiling and laughing at something he says. He removes his hat, signals for tea, but her hand does not leave his arm. She curls her fingers around his, smiles again, and winks at him through the steam of the tea that is set between them.

Orsino draws back from the balcony railing, pensive; he has seen enough of this meeting. He disappears inside, amidst a ream of torn and ink stained paper, as the note takers and publishers write their missives to the world outside.

_Viola_

I left no ring with her... what means this lady? I have taken this commission to be a proxy for Orsino, though he knows little of me. And Olivia knows - she must know - of my purpose, of the act for which I have been employed. But she will not hear of it. She hangs upon my arm and looks into my eye - sends this ring that she says I dropped. And I am stiff and formal with her, for how could I answer her? That I am not who I present? That I love the one that sent me? That I see within her eyes some feeling that must echo my own, that I would answer were I capable?

Not possible. I am here for the job, only, and any thoughts beyond that must remain pure fantasy, no matter what lies in the dark corners of my heart. I set these words to paper in the hopes that they will absent themselves from my head, that I may burn them and release them.

But later; he is at my door, and he will surely want news of this afternoon's meeting.

_Orsino_

He leans against the door frame, eyeing the young man as he hastily closes the clasp on a leather bound volume, stores a pen amidst the sheathes of paper. He is alert, and his eyes wander hungrily over the other's features, noting the smoothness of his cheek, the wide curl of his lip, the slenderness of his shoulders. He feels that the pervasive smoke of this city must have cleared briefly and let him glimpse something of a hidden nature. He smiles to himself.

"Your meeting with the lady," he begins, leaving the statement hanging, drawing his answer from the other.

The man starts, and falters, his voice high and nervous. "She is resolute, sir. She says she has no use for your offer."

"And you?"

"I think your offer is quite generous, and your person commendable. I cannot see why she would turn down..."

Orsino laughs, quietly, and the man stops his cascade of words. "Not what you think of me - though I may guess at that."

He speaks softly and a smile touches the corner of his lips. "What does she think of you? Can you charm her for me? Will you play my proxy well? Will she come to see the advantages of this union? Persuade her for me, and I will be most appreciative."

The younger man swallows, covers his fingers, hiding a glint of metal in the low light. Orsino pretends not to notice. He leaves the doorway, crosses the room, casually laying a hand on the man's shoulder.

He brings his mouth close to the other's ear and whispers, "Indeed, I am already most appreciative."

He traces a line down his shoulder, turning the other to face him, opening the buttons of his waistcoat. He is unsurprised when he finds a feminine form beneath the man's uniform, though she is shy to his touch.

"Your real name, Cesario?"

She hesitates. Then, "Viola," she answers, softly, but she raises her head, looking at him with eyes that beg for her secret to be kept, even as she pulls him to the bed. Their passion is wrapped in urgency and secrecy. He is quiet, not unkind, stifling a gasp against her shoulder as he climaxes, and she turns and cries quietly into a pillow as he leaves.

The young man presents himself, mid-morning, again wearing his disguise, and Orsino wonders whether he had been briefly transformed into Olivia or if he imagined the woman that he had held the night before. He plays Cesario well this morning, jaunty and sure of himself, and Orsino sees him as he imagines Olivia must. He sends him on some errand before retreating into his private thoughts.

_Olivia_

She walks among the trees, rustling their dry leaves and whispering into the dusky evening air. Black skirts follow her, speaking their own quiet answers to the conversation of the trees. She reaches a gloved hand into a purse, withdraws a pocket watch on an ornate chain, glances at the hands pointing to some other realm before putting it distractedly away.

She sees him then, sitting on a bench, tucked away in a little corner of the park. Stone monuments, crumbling under the fingers of spreading ivy, enclose the space, removing them from the other figures walking silently in the park. She joins him on the bench, rests a hand on his knee, leans in against his shoulder. Alone in the dim light, he is more at ease, putting an arm around her, pulling her in.

She allows him to lead the conversation, and tonight he warms to the task, drawing them both into laughter, lighting the evening. They do not talk of Orsino, although he stands between them, burdening her heart. She cannot bring herself to say what she most wishes, that Cesario would take her away from her past, board her on a train with smoke and coal ash, a haunting whistle and the clanking of iron gears and wheels. She wishes for new smells of spice, another city where she can drink a dark red wine and let herself love the man beside her.

She does not say this. She lets the night air speak for her, but she does not count on its translations. They part again, as distant lights burn from the city's towers.

_Viola_

I return to the room I keep. The wooden floor creaks beneath the weight of my thoughts. The gas lamp on the wall throws a flickering light over my dinner, which I eat automatically. What means this lady but escape - what mean we all? I escaped, myself, a wreck tossed up against this city, its schemes and machinations, its rattling trolley cars and forgotten bistros. It is no magic place to which we escape, or if it were, I could not take her there; I have too many secrets of my own.

I do not notice him in the shadows until I am in bed and he joins me. He can smell her perfume on my skin, sees her as he looks into my eyes. And yet I open to him, enfold him in my embrace. I think of her as he enters me, wondering what city might be distant enough for her, and I pull him closer. I cry again as he leaves me, wanting him to stay, and I know it will happen again the next night.


End file.
